


I Smell Sex and Pancakes

by kateyboosh, Terrantalen



Category: The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: As you do, Cold Hard Sexual Vengeance, Crack, Cumplay, Delayed Pancake Flip-gasm, He Flips The Pancake… But Does He Really Flip The Pancake?, Julian Belongs On Masterchef, M/M, Mouth Apologies, Noel Is A Brat, Noel Is Five, Or Warm Syrupy Sexual Vengeance, Pancake Angst With A Happy Ending, Rad Collab, Sticky Trouser Crimes, Sweet Vs. Savory, Syrup Blowies, Syrup-Soaked Sonnets, The Adventures of Daddy Syrup Dick and Noel "You Gonna Flip That?" Fielding, This Blow-Job Is For Vengeance, You Decide, seeing is believing, this is normal, yummy yummy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27830398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kateyboosh/pseuds/kateyboosh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terrantalen/pseuds/Terrantalen
Summary: Julian makes pancakes on a Sunday morning. Noel just wants to see a flip. Will Julian oblige?The tension here is Thick. As thick as the batter.
Relationships: Julian Barratt/Noel Fielding
Comments: 12
Kudos: 17
Collections: Trash Triplets Crackmas 2020: It's All About Range





	I Smell Sex and Pancakes

**Author's Note:**

> Because Crackmas must begin with a hearty breakfast, and because we loved "you gonna flip that?" enough that this happened.

It’s a lazy Sunday morning, little rays of light leaking in over the countertops of Julian’s kitchen. He eases a crumpled bag of flour back into the cupboard, sweeps eggshells into the bin and stashes the milk back in the fridge, swinging his tea towel over his shoulder with a whistle. He turns just in time to see Noel sneaking over to the pan, peering in and reaching for the handle.

“Hands off, they’re not ready yet.”

Noel sticks his tongue out, deep in concentration, his hand hovering. “How do you know? You’re miles away and they’re burning, I can tell.”

Julian sniffs the air as he crosses over to survey the state of the pan. It smells wonderful in his kitchen, melted butter and diced fruit and that spicy-sweet cologne Noel’s taken to wearing. 

“I can sense these things. All great chefs can; we’re born with it. It’s like a third eye, the batter eye. Besides, they’ve only been in for-”

Julian makes a big show of leaning around Noel to check the clock hanging on the wall behind him.

“-twelve seconds. Thirteen? Fourteen? Fifteen at the most.”

Noel pouts as if Julian’s willing the minutes to pass slowly, as if he’s engaged in some secret conspiracy to stretch the time it takes to cook one side of a pancake out to the time it takes to read through several technical manuals, a shelf of Russian novels, and the back of a cereal box.

He sighs and hops up onto the countertop. “Fine,” he huffs. “You are going to flip it, right?”

Julian eyes him up, then eyes the pan, then eyes the spatula tucked in the utensil jar next to the decent tongs and the slightly smaller, less efficient tongs. "Don't know. Hadn't thought about it. Perhaps."

“What d’you mean, you hadn’t thought about it? Who makes pancakes and doesn’t think about the flip?” Noel starts. He stops talking when Julian touches the pan, though, and Julian can feel his big blue eyes getting even bigger and bluer and boring into the back of him, pleading. 

He adjusts the angle of the pan, moving it a fraction to the left so it’s centered perfectly over the burner, and pulls his hand back. Noel groans and slides down onto the lino, crossing to rest his head on Julian’s shoulder. 

"Aw, come on, Ju-yin! Just, once? Please? For me?" 

“What are you? Five?”

It is well apparent to all involved that Noel is, in fact, five. 

Julian shuffles the pan and the pancake in the middle slides about like it’s on ice-skates. He’s used plenty of butter, and had the heat just right. He could, he knows, do exactly what Noel is so desperate for him to do and flip the pancake in the pan. It would flip like one of those little battery operated dogs that you sometimes see at outdoor Christmas fairs. A little flip-floop.

It’s not quite ready to go, yet. The bubbles in the batter aren’t quite big enough. 

That doesn’t stop Julian from tilting the handle up like he’s going to do it. Noel’s eyes start sparkling with absolute delight, his lips part in a little ‘o’ of wonder and then Julian puts down the pan and picks up the spatula.

Noel watches him scrape at the edges of the pancake the same way widows watch the coffins of their dearly departed husbands being lowered into the ground. “Ju... flip it…”

"I was going to..."

Noel's eyes grow in size again like a tiny, fluffy, adorable cartoon character's. Julian's fully expecting him to clasp his hands in front of his heart and proclaim, "my hero!" as he stands back to take in the full vision of the Barratt pancake flipping experience.

"... don't think I will now. It doesn't feel right," he finishes as Noel's groan drowns him and the tap of the spatula out.

“Then can I flip it?” Noel asks, immediately reaching for the handle of the pan as soon as the idea occurs to him.

Julian slides it away. “Easy, there. Have you ever flipped a pancake in your life?” He waits and watches Noel try to decide if he can fool him by saying ‘yes’. He can’t. They both know that if it goes beyond putting it in a microwave, he’s completely at sea when it comes to cooking. “I’m not about to trust these babies to some inexpert flipper just for the sake of a little fun.”

“Then you flip it, please? Or I could ring up Dave? And he could flip it?” Julian shoots that suggestion down with a dubious look. Noel frowns. “Come on. Just let somebody flip it!”

Julian makes the tiniest motion with his wrist and Noel immediately stops speaking. He moves the pan forward and Noel bites at his lip nervously, fingers digging into the countertop. 

A little more and Noel's squirming, fidgeting like he's managed to squeeze a bottle of itching powder down the tiny bit of space in his jeans not taken up by... everything else.

Julian clears his throat and reaches for the spatula and Noel groans and throws his hands up over his face, flopping his top half down dramatically on the countertop.

He misses the flip that Julian executes flawlessly. It has to be a world record setting flip, something that would be talked about at breakfast nooks around the world, something that pancake enthusiasts would write syrup-soaked sonnets about. 

Noel picks his head up off the countertop. “Ju, can’t—” he cuts himself off. His eyes are on the very golden, very much flipped top of the pancake. “Did you just... when I wasn’t looking!?” he squawks. 

“Maybe so, maybe not,” Julian says, shuffling the pan with cool indifference. “Guess you’ll never know.”

“You did!” Noel stomps his foot. “That’s not—you’re a dick, Julian!”

Julian only chuckles. “Not my fault if you happened to look away and miss the pancake flip of the century.”

Noel’s eyes narrow. His bottom lip juts forward like a pouty kid’s, his whole posture sinks into the sulkiest slouch Julian has ever seen. “I really wanted to see that.”

“Should have been looking,” Julian says with a shrug. 

“Fine.” Noel straightens up. He points at Julian, “You’ll be paying for this later.”

He sulks all the way through breakfast, drowning his pancakes in half the bottle of syrup before starting.

He pulls a face after his first bite. "These are awful, they're all cold and tough."

Julian laughs. "They're fluffier than poodle hair and warm as a hot bath on a cold winter evening and you know it."

Noel scrunches his nose. "I still can't believe you did that when I wasn't looking. I thought we were friends, Ju’n," he sighs.

"Believe it," Julian responds, cutting himself a forkful. "We are. I've got the spatula rejects. I gave you the one I flipped, so eat up."

“Doesn’t matter if you flipped it if I didn’t get to see it. I eat with my eyes.” Noel looks forlorn as an abandoned kitten. He pokes his perfect pancake with his fork. “I don’t even want it, now.”

“Well, I’ll have it, then,” Julian says, rising in his seat and reaching with his fork.

Predictably, Noel pulls his plate away, clearly not about to let Julian have anything he wants now that he’s been deprived of some first-rate pancake flipping. He takes a bite, then sighs, as though to illustrate how little he’s enjoying his breakfast. “You’re terrible,” he says.

“Mmm, I know. Making you a delicious, home-made breakfast, buying an extra bottle of syrup to make sure you had enough, flipping a pancake for you, especially. I’m a real bastard.”

Noel shoots him a look like he doesn’t quite agree with Julian’s version of recent events. He takes another sulky bite of his pancake. He chews it, swallows. A smile slowly takes root. “Yeah, guess you’re right, Ju.”

Julian knows trouble when he sees it. An abrupt shift out of a sulk is never good.

“Sorry for being a tit,” Noel says. He wipes his thumb across the side of his plate, and amber-brown syrup collects and then drips down as he lifts his thumb to his mouth. He sucks his thumb clean, hollowing his cheeks and all, before he pops it out of his mouth and breaks out into a huge grin.

Now, Julian knows he’s really in for it.

Noel finishes breakfast in record time. He takes both of their plates to the sink and rinses them clean of the syrup remnants he hasn’t licked up. He even makes Julian a second cup of tea exactly the way he likes it, and only steals one sip before handing it over and then dropping to his knees between Julian’s legs on the lino. 

Julian’s hand falls naturally to cup the back of his head when Noel nuzzles into his stomach. He sips at his tea nonchalantly and sets the cup down, rubbing his finger over a speck of stray syrup that’s stuck to the tabletop. 

“What are you doing?” Julian asks, even though Noel kneeling between his thighs and nosing his shirt up while he plays with the waistband of Julian’s trousers isn’t exactly the sort of thing that requires a code-breaker to figure out.

“Saying sorry,” Noel says sweetly. He looks up his lashes at Julian, then takes the edge of Julian’s t-shirt in his teeth and pulls it up. He kisses the bare skin of Julian’s stomach, nipping at the edge of his belly button before he dips his tongue down into it.

Julian laughs, even as he feels his cock starting to go stiff. “Eager to apologize, are you?”

“Mmm,” Noel hums. He pushes his face into Julian’s belly, his warm breath is loud in the still air of the kitchen as he presses his nose flat. His tongue slides against Julian’s skin. He chases each lick with a scrape of his teeth, his lips follow last of all. Slick, rough, smooth. It builds until it feels like Noel wants to devour him, possibly wants to have already done it. His fingers hunt around Julian’s fly, trying to get him unbuttoned.

Doubtless, this is some sort of… something. A play. Noel will get Julian worked up then walk off or… who knows what he’s thinking? It’s vengeance. It’s got to be. Julian doesn’t believe for one second that Noel has forgiven the pancake betrayal so quickly and so easily. He knows him too well for that.

But, two can play the game that’s being played, and, if Noel wants to play sexual chicken, he’s going to find himself outmatched. Severely.

Julian slides his hand from the back of Noel’s head to cup his jaw. He guides his face away from his stomach. Noel’s fingers still. “It’s Sunday,” Julian says, softly.

“I know the day of the week,” Noel says through a laugh. “What’s your point?”

“Take it easy. Slow down.”

Noel’s eyes sparkle the same way the ocean does in the eye of a hurricane, just before the storm swallows a ship whole. “As you like.”

He slides his hands from Julian’s waistband to his chest, to his shoulders. He rises up and kisses Julian on the mouth, tasting of maple syrup. 

His touch is timid when he threads his fingers with Julian’s, the press of his lips light and nearly shy. It’s incredible how demure he can be when he wants to. Or when he knows he has to be.

He definitely wants something, though. Julian knows all his tricks. Hell, he’s taught him half of them. He doesn’t regret teaching Noel the one with-

“Ju?” Noel breathes as he breaks away, his cheeks flushed pink, his zip straining against his erection. His dick is outlined in his jeans as clearly as if he’s stuck a couple of sticks of butter down the front to warm them. “C’n we go upstairs?” His voice is as sweet as his lips. “Wanna make it good for you, Ju.”

Maybe Julian’s being paranoid about the whole thing. Maybe Noel really does just want to go upstairs so they can peel each other’s clothes off and spend the rest of the morning entwined in bed, then have a nap and go another round in the afternoon.

Noel toes at the lino with his bare foot, waiting. It looks like he’s holding his breath, his chest drawn tight under his t-shirt. He beams when Julian stands, and turns to walk to the stairs.

Julian doesn’t budge. He doesn’t let go of Noel’s hand, either.

“Come here,” Julian says when both of their arms are fully extended and Noel turns around, a confused quirk to his lips. 

He’s all smiles when Julian scoops him up, his legs slotting around Julian’s waist, Julian’s hands cupping his arse. 

He’s even more smiles as Julian carries him over to the kitchen island and deposits him on it. Rule number one of breaking Noel’s resolve: novelty. They haven’t fucked each other on a countertop before.

Noel looks around at where he’s sat, then looks back at Julian. Julian quirks an eyebrow at him.

“This isn’t upstairs,” Noel says with a naughty grin.

Julian hums. “You noticed.”

Noel pinches his tongue between his teeth. He slides his fingers up the back of Julian’s neck and into his hair in a way that Julian likes very much. He likes it, too, when Noel’s other hand drops from his shoulder and starts kneading his arse. He likes all of it enough to start worshipping Noel’s neck with kisses.

Noel tips his head back and his hair shifts out of the way of Julian’s lips. He keeps his legs wrapped loosely around Julian’s waist so that whenever he moves, Julian feels it both in front and behind him. He moves constantly; rolls his hips, grabs Julian’s sides, grinds his cock against whatever he can get it near. 

Noel gasps. “Ju,” he says, his fingernails scraping at Julian’s scalp. Chills race down Julian’s back. Noel pulls him closer. “I want to make you feel good,” he says again. He kisses Julian, then looks at him with the widest, most innocent eyes this side of a Disney princess. “Tell me what you want?”

Now this, this is a trick. Julian knows it’s a trick. He’s actually had this same trick played on him by this same man before. The problem is that it’s a pretty fucking good trick. Noel playing innocent. Julian telling him in no uncertain terms what to do with his hands, or mouth, or… other bits. Noel never balks, at least not for long. He’ll do as Julian says.

So, it’s less a trick than a game. A game they both like. Who can really hold a grudge about pancakes, anyway? Surely not a grown, adult man. Still, better safe than sorry.

Julian grins. Rule two of breaking Noel's resolve: touch his dick and watch him melt like soft butter hitting a perfectly heated pan. He's still a bit too clothed for that to happen properly, though.

"I want your shirt off, to start," he says, running his hands up Noel's ribcage, letting his thumbs drag over Noel's nipples through the thin cotton. Noel breathes deep, his chest expanding, filling Julian's hands. He leans forward to kiss Julian again, grinding against him. 

Typically, he'd be squirming to get his hand down Julian's trousers at this point. Instead, he runs his hands over Julian's arms, down to his fingers where they're resting on his chest, thumbs circling. Then, he lifts his arms above his head, the picture of breathy innocence. Julian's hands shift as he moves, and he can feel Noel's heartbeat, rabbit-quick under his palm.

"Take it off me, Ju'n," he says, little pink tongue coming out to wet his lips. He's supposed to listen, not suggest, but… 

"Please."

As long as he's asking nicely.

Julian's lying if he says it doesn't make his cock twitch violently in his pants. Yeah, he needs to get Noel's dick in his hand immediately. Probably for reasons other than breaking Noel's resolve.

Julian pulls Noel's t-shirt over his head and tosses it onto the counter. It sails over onto the utensil jar and drapes over both sets of tongs like a worn pink cotton tent. 

"Trousers and pants down," Julian gets out. Noel huffs a breath and spreads his hands flat on his stomach, sitting up straight as Julian unzips and unbuttons. He braces his palms on the countertop and lifts his arse as Julian tugs at his waistband.

Julian leans forward to nip at the muscle standing out in his arm and Noel smiles above him, his grin gone goofy and wide, cock half out of his pants.

It’s unfair how fucking gorgeous he is. If he looked less like he does and more like a normal person, Julian would have a vastly easier time with him. He’d be able to keep rational thoughts in his head, for a start. As it is, all he can think is how much he wants to touch, and taste, and _have_ Noel, that silly, sunshiney smile that looks like a sherbet lemon made manifest, his perfectly arched lips that taste like maple sugar when Julian captures them. 

Noel is so small that Julian’s hands can nearly surround him, and yet, for everywhere that he’s touching, there are still so many more places he wants to touch. He can’t, for instance, touch Noel’s cock and tits and face and neck and arse all at once. He’s got to decide where to focus his efforts. 

Cock. He knows that Noel’s cock is key. Noel can’t scheme with his cock in play and that’s still vaguely important.

Julian kisses down Noel’s neck, determined to head downward, but he gets distracted and detours over to Noel’s nipple. He kisses it lightly. Noel giggles and squirms against him. Julian honestly can’t help himself. He closes his hand around Noel’s hip, then he sucks his nipple into his mouth.

“Oh, Christ,” Noel gasps. His thighs spread wide before he closes them around Julian’s waist. He plucks at the hem of Julian’s shirt, then the waistband of his trousers. “Ju’un, wanna…”

“Shh,” Julian whispers, letting his exhalation ghost over Noel’s dampened skin. Noel shivers. “I’ll tell you what to do. Right now, just keep still and let me handle you.” 

Noel moans, his hands skitter away from Julian’s body and across the countertop. He knocks something over, not the utensil crock, but Julian hears whatever it is fall with a glassy thunk, as he resumes swirling his tongue over Noel’s nipple.

A moment later Noel’s thumb is near Julian’s mouth and Julian pulls away to see the golden smudge of syrup on Noel’s finger only for a moment before he dabs it down on his tit. He pulls his thumb away and a trail of sugar forms a small suspension bridge before it breaks.

“Extra sweet,” Noel says. He pops his thumb into his mouth and mimics almost the exact same, slow swirling of tongue, leading into hollow-cheeked sucking that he did at breakfast until he’s licked himself clean.

“You’re the one who likes sweet,” Julian says, remembering about pancakes, and vengeance, and grudges that are almost definitely still being held, and necessary _resolve breaking_ all in a rush. “I’ve always preferred savory.”

He pushes Noel back slightly, gives him one quick nip on the flat of his stomach, then pulls his pants toward his knees and slides his mouth down around the head of his cock.

Noel’s body tenses like an archer’s bowstring. He gasps at the suddenness and his hips lift forward off the countertop. It’s only Julian’s hands on his thighs that keep him anchored as he sucks him down. His hand threads through the hair at the back of Julian’s head and he grips tight as Julian moves closer, taking more of him. 

Julian can tell he’s fighting giving in, just from the tightness of Noel’s muscles under his palms. Usually, he tenses up with the anticipation and the delight of having a wet, hot mouth around his cock. Then he immediately relaxes until his limbs are as limp as a rag doll’s, then tenses up again the closer he gets. 

Julian wants him to give in and forget about everything in the world, forget pancakes and fancy cookery tricks and games and grudges, and only think about what’s being done to him right now. He hollows his cheeks in an approximation of Noel’s from earlier, drawing his mouth tight around him, and bobs his head.

“Christ, Ju-yin,” Noel sighs, and for a moment, Julian thinks he’s got him right where he wants him. 

Then, Noel tugs at his hair. There’s a little prickle in his voice when he speaks. 

“Julian, savory? Are you trying to imply my dick’s _tangy_ , then?” 

Julian hums noncommittally. He ignores the question and takes more of him, working his lips to touch the circle of his index finger and thumb where he’s holding the base of Noel’s cock. That should do it, float that question and the lack of response out of Noel’s head as easy as brushing flour dust off his hands. 

He squeezes at Noel’s thigh when he gets there. It’s taut as a fucking skin stretched over a drum, his muscles hard as steel.

Julian considers. He swirls his tongue along the underside of Noel’s cock and then pops off. 

In for a penny, in for a pound. 

“Tangy as a stack of buttermilk pancakes. Expertly flipped buttermilk pancakes.”

Noel glares at him. “You fucker,” he starts, but Julian moves up before he can get to the indignant “how dare you,” one hand enveloping his wet dick, the other pinching at his nipple. He cuts himself off when Julian’s mouth closes over his tit, laving over the sticky syrup that’s started to dry there. 

Julian rises. He kisses Noel deep, working his cock slow and lazy, playing with his slit as he tongues him, all sweet syrup and precome. When he breaks the kiss, before Noel can strop, he noses his face to the side, nipping at his earlobe. His hand slides off Noel’s nipple, down the center of his chest, over to his hip. “It’s beautiful. You know it is,” he says, his voice low.

When he drops his hand down to Noel’s thigh, his muscles have gone slack, warm and loose under his palm. 

“Beautiful,” he echoes, and Noel shivers.

Julian kisses him, slipping his tongue back into Noel’s mouth, then scraping his teeth over Noel’s bottom lip. “Can you taste yourself?” he asks. He crawls his hand down the shaft of Noel’s cock while he waits for his answer.

Noel squirms on the countertop. His thigh twitches. “Not… uh… really.”

“Pity,” Julian says. He has Noel’s cock in one hand, but it’s really a two-hand job, or, can be. He takes his hand off Noel’s thigh. He slips down Noel’s cock with one hand, then wraps the other over the head. When he reaches the end of his shaft with his first hand, he shuffles it back to the top.

“Oh,” Noel says, his eyes going wide as Julian slides his hands and switches them again creating one, long, continuous tunnel of penetration. Julian’s fist parts and he watches a bead of precome leak from the top of Noel’s cock. He dips down, licks Noel’s slit and collects it on the tip of his tongue. 

He makes sure Noel is watching him before he rolls his tongue back into his mouth. He hums contentedly. “Better than pancakes.”

Noel’s face is a picture. He thinks it’s funny, Julian can tell, but he doesn’t _just_ think it’s funny. “You’re such a pervert,” he says through a gasp as Julian’s hands switch places again. 

“I love the way you taste,” Julian says, not rising to the bait. He kisses Noel, tongues him deeply. “How ‘bout now?”

Noel’s eyes have fluttered closed. They flick open, “What?”

“Can you taste yourself?”

Noel’s face turns fretful. They honestly do have all day. Julian can see him thinking it, can see him wondering how long Julian will do this to him. Longer than he wants, is the answer. Maybe Noel knows it, maybe he doesn’t. Either way, he only shakes his head. 

His muscles are tightening up again. 

Julian slows his stroking. He watches Noel’s cock until he sees another shining bead of precome appear. This time, when Julian dips down to collect it, Noel swears.

He stills his hands for his repeat performance. When he tucks his tongue back into his mouth, he’s holding Noel’s cock, just tight enough to feel it pulse in his grip. 

“Delicious,” Julian rumbles and Noel’s lips part.

Julian leans forward. He stops just before their lips meet, waits. Patience. Step three to breaking Noel’s resolve. Patience.

It doesn’t take _that_ long.

“ _Ju_ ,” Noel whines, a sound rich as butter, sweet as syrup, more satisfying than anything else in the whole world. 

Julian kisses him, deep and long and hard.

Noel’s cock is twitching in Julian’s grip, and he, himself, is aching for Noel’s hands, or his mouth, or anything at all. His cock is begging to get out of his trousers at the least; soon, he tells himself, soon.

He forces himself to pull away. “Now?” he asks.

"Yes?" Noel shudders. His voice cracks halfway through, and it's high enough that Julian knows he's fibbing even without the upward inflection. 

Julian slides his hand down, slick against Noel’s cock, then back again. "Are you sure?" 

"No, alright? I can’t. Please, Ju, just touch me," Noel whimpers, squirming forward, clutching at Julian’s shoulders. “Make me come, Ju,” he gasps, Julian’s hand rolling over the head of his dick again. He shoves his hips forward, desperate. “Julian, please, fuck me. Let me up, I’ll get the syrup, you can use that-”

Julian huffs out a little surprised laugh. Syrup as lube; there goes the resolve, then, just in time.

He keeps both hands firmly on Noel’s cock, sliding down, down, down, and presses their foreheads together. 

“You’re ridiculous, Fielding. We’re not doing that.” He rubs his nose against Noel’s. “Love you.”

“Oh, _fucking hell_ , Julian,” Noel pants as he reaches the head of his dick again, “love you too.”

Noel’s thighs are so tense when Julian dips back down and braces himself, it’s like running a palm over a marble statue and finding it warm and alive. He’s leaking steadily, now, and Julian laps at his slit, slowly gathering up every drop. 

Noel’s ready for him when he stands, twisting his fingers in Julian’s collar, pulling him forward to bring their mouths together. He’s desperate, impatient, _hungry_. He pushes his tongue into Julian’s mouth, seeking, squirming into Julian’s hand until he’s nearly dangling off the edge of the countertop.

Julian takes pity on him. He lets his wrist twist and then pumps him firmly with one hand, quick strokes that he knows will get Noel off. 

Noel groans into his mouth, his hand moving to hold the back of Julian’s neck. He grabs at the countertop with the other, trying to stay perched exactly where he is, Julian touching him just right.

Julian shifts, wraps his arm around Noel’s waist to brace him. He strokes Noel hard, firm, fast, and Noel yelps. 

“Go on, then,” he says, voice low. “I’ve got you.” 

“ _Ju-unhhhh_ ,” Noel whines, his entire body going taut, hand scrabbling over the countertop, and Julian's cock leaps in his pants. “I-”

Julian feels his fingernails digging in at the back of his neck, feels his breath catch in his chest, feels his cock pulse as his head drops back. He leans forward and sucks at the soft skin of Noel’s neck as he shudders, then comes, panting and moaning Julian’s name as he curls toward him, soft and pliant and so fucking _beautiful_.

He pumps Noel’s cock until he slumps his head forward and his grip on Julian’s neck loosens. 

“Kiss,” Noel breathes. 

Julian complies, his hand slowing until it’s just soft touches, then little caresses to Noel’s hipbone with the backs of his knuckles.

Noel’s eyes are shut and his expression is dreamy when his other hand, the one that Julian thought was gripping onto the countertop, comes up to his chest. It makes a solid, plasticky thump that's unsettling. 

Julian cuts his eyes down, and Noel’s got the spatula, the offending implement of the hour, clutched in his fist.

Julian tries very, very hard not to laugh in the middle of what’s turning out to be a very, very nice kiss.

He fails very, very obviously.

“What’ve you got there?” he splutters.

Noel’s eyes shoot open.

He looks down at his hand. “This _fucker_ ,” he spits. It sounds like the spatula has murdered his family, or torched his flat, or weed all over every single pair of his favorite jeans. He wings it across the room before Julian has a chance to do anything like stop him. Something behind them cracks, then the spatula clatters to the floor.

He’s broken something, the little prick, but Julian knows that the best relationships and the best comedy partnerships are all about the give and take. The compromise. Sometimes you do a romantic little yeti dance onstage, complete with twirls and spins and leaping into arms like it's as natural as breathing, and sometimes you dump your partner straight into a tent, onto the top of their perfectly-coiffed barnet.

Sometimes you don't worry about the glass in the cabinet cracking from a spatula flung aside in the throes of... passion, as long as appropriate apologies are made.

Mouth apologies. Made with mouth.

Noel is nothing if not a mouthy boy.

“Don’t _throw_ —” Julian scolds, but he doesn’t get a chance to continue the admonishment. 

Noel pulls Julian by the collar again, kisses him roughly. “You’re a fucking tease, Ju.” He starts pushing himself off the counter, his narrow body shoving against Julian as he forces him backward.

Julian keeps hold of Noel at his hip. To be fair, though, Noel doesn’t seem like he has any intention of going anywhere, except for, perhaps, right through Julian. “What are you talking about? I always give you—”

“It’s not funny, by the way,” Noel says, struggling to pop the button on Julian’s fly. “Getting someone all worked up and then not...” he keeps walking Julian backward, pushing him until Julian’s shoulders hit the wall, still fighting with Julian’s trousers. He stops talking, looks down at his hands, then finally finds success with the button, moves on to Julian’s zip, “Giving them—”

“I flipped that pancake,” Julian tells him, because, sometimes, he has self-destructive tendencies.

Only in the mouth of Noel Fielding can the word _twat_ sound like an endearment, especially when spoken with such sincerity and such venom. 

Julian’s cock leaps a mile, and that’s before Noel pulls his zip down and practically tears his pants off him. His cock rejoices at the sudden freedom, rejoices again as Noel wraps his hand around him. Noel starts to kneel, his skin slides through Julian’s hands, from his hips, to his waist, to his ribs; if Julian wants something, Noel is going to give it to him _immediately_ , that’s the rebuke, that’s the argument.

He might throw a spatula and break a little glass, but Noel wants and gives _now_ , whereas Julian…

He catches Noel before he can get all the way down on his knees. Noel looks up at him. If Julian didn’t know better, he’d think Noel was the one who had yet to get off. “Whoa, there. What’s the rush?”

“Are you mental? You’re really going to start doing Howard _now_?”

“No, but I remember someone saying that they were going to do exactly as I said.” Julian tucks his fingers behind Noel’s ear, feels the kick of his pulse against his palm. “Seem to remember something about ‘making me feel good’. Or was that just a tease?”

Noel hesitates. It's just a split second, something wavering in his eyes, and then he splutters out, "But you can't- that's not fair, Julian!" 

Julian grins. He ignores Noel's grip on his dick, this side of too tight, ignores how he's stopped moving his hand. "I seem to recall hearing something else said. Recently, perhaps. Something to the tune of, 'It's not funny, by the way, getting someone all worked up and then not giving them…'" he trails off, addressing the ceiling tiles as nonchalantly as if he's reciting back a particularly dull bit of the shipping forecast.

Noel's fit to burst when he glances back down. A second wave of red surges across his already-flushed cheeks. His mouth opens and then shuts, scandalized at having his own words reflected back at him. 

"I can't believe you sometimes. You're really going to do this now, _cock in hand_ , when I'm ready to get down on your fucking uncomfortable, hard floor and get sore knees and neck cramp _and_ jaw ache just to suck you off?"

Julian looks down at him for a beat. He shrugs.

"You're unbelievable," Noel scowls, and Julian's dick strains in his hand. 

"Fine," he says, addressing Julian's cock instead of his face, his brows coming together. "Alright, fine." 

Petulant, he looks petulant and pouty, and so gorgeous that Julian can't help but remind him, "Slow. Make it nice," as if he's capable of giving anything less than a blowie that makes Julian's hair curl, makes the fucking pearly gates blast open and fanfares sound and sets off more fireworks than Bonfire Night on an endless spending budget. 

Noel glares at him and gives him one slow stroke, letting him feel every inch of his skin, so thorough that if Julian concentrated, he could probably map every line imprinted in the flesh of Noel's palm with his cock.

He's about to look down and tell Noel, "Little faster than that, thanks," but the expression on Noel's face has shifted from annoyance to something else. Something scheming. Something that Julian recalls seeing before his brain was fogged by the feeling of friction along his aching dick. Something accompanied by "You'll be paying for this later."

Noel lets his mouth fall open, eyes flicking up and boring into Julian's. His tongue teases at his top lip, then darts back to press at the bottom from the inside of his mouth, popping out and rolling over the pink of his lower lip. He leans forward, his warm breath ghosting wickedly over the head of Julian's dick.

Noel blinks up at him. Then he licks down his entire length, tongue flattening out in one smooth, lingering sweep. Then he leans back and does it again, same languid pace, shifting his tongue to the left in the most miniscule slide possible, getting just a bit more of Julian's cock wet along the border of the same path. 

Oh. 

Julian fears he may have made a slight mistake. 

Usually, when he asks for slow, Noel's horny and eager and kisses him all down his shaft, slurpy, open-mouthed kisses that end with him teasing his head with his tongue before diving down onto him and sucking him dry. 

This time, though, his dick's clearly a lolly, and Noel's cross, and running a payback experiment to see exactly how many licks it takes to get to the candy center.

Julian groans.

"What's that?" Noel asks. His voice is sticky sweet. His fluttering eyelashes seem to have grown a mile, blinking over his pink cheeks like innocent little butterflies' wings. 

Fucking butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. 

Julian attempts a coughed, "Nothing. Bit faster?" that ends up as a strangled groan before he can get the last word out, Noel squeezing the base of his dick.

"Slower? Alright, Ju'n," Noel breathes. 

Noel’s lips form a perfect, pink circle. He slides the tip of Julian’s cock just past the border of his lips, just barely into the interior of his mouth before he pulls back. He does it again, and again, and again. Julian slaps the wall, and Noel freezes mid-tease.

His lips are framing the head of Julian’s cock, his eyes are on Julian’s face. He tongue slips along the underside of Julian’s glans then flits away, the sensation of near gratification _worse_ than a tease. Noel knows it. He leans back, smacking his lips. He makes a face, “You’re right. Cock is well tangy. Might get something to sweeten it up?”

Julian wants to tell him not to even think about going anywhere, but Noel runs his thumb over the very red head of his prick with just enough pressure to instantly milk another drop of precum out of him. He laps it up, shakes his head, then stands.

“No,” Julian manages.

Noel cocks his head. “You say my name, Ju? Want something?”

“Get your fucking syrup,” Julian growls. “Don’t get any on my trousers.”

Noel pinches his tongue between his teeth, flashes a filthy grin before turning toward the counter and plucking the syrup off it. He takes his time sauntering back, lets Julian get a good look at his still-plumped cock and his muscular thighs, at every line of his gorgeous body, while he keeps his eyes firmly fixed on one place and one place alone.

Julian is aware that even if he isn’t betraying how much he wants it with words, his cock is stabbing him in the back like bloody Brutus as it jolts and jumps of its own accord under Noel’s gaze. 

Noel shakes the syrup. “Got it,” he says. “Now what?” he asks.

“Suck—”

“Suck your tits? Alright, Ju, if that’s what you want.”

They both know that’s not what Julian wants. 

Noel’s fingers tug at the edge of Julian’s shirt and Julian obliges him by taking it the rest of the way off. He throws it across the room and it smacks the side of a cabinet before it falls down on the counter. 

“Don’t throw things, Ju’un,” Noel says at his absolutely most insufferable. He unscrews the cap on the syrup, dabs his finger in it, then draws a line across Julian’s tit. He paints the edge of his areola with sticky sugar.

Every touch feels like fire. Pleasurable, tortuous fire. It turns to wet fire a moment later when Noel’s tongue goes flat against Julian’s skin and licks him clean, the half-hour he spends rolling and sucking at Julian’s nipple a towering, damp inferno, drowned in syrup and vague regret. 

“Can you,” Julian starts, only to find himself shocked silent by Noel’s hand wrapping around his cock again. Noel palms the head of his prick, collects each damp, slick drop of precum Julian has produced then stops touching him. He lifts his hand in front of his face, looks at it.

He licks his palm, slow, slavering laps of tongue that would be vastly more appreciated were they placed against the skin of Julian’s cock.

Julian groans. His fingernails scrape against the wall. He's in fucking agony, and if he knew that one stupid breakfast food was going to be the cause of his dick leaping off of his body at the sight of Noel's tongue, he'd have poured them bowls of slightly stale sugar cereal and made them eat it dry instead. 

Noel nuzzles against his stomach, his hand thoroughly cleaned and deliciously wet. It goes nowhere near Julian's cock, though. Apparently, now that he's gotten off, Noel's time warping back to the start of his interrupted blowie plans this morning. 

It feels like it was days ago, possibly months, when Julian got this erection. It doesn't feel like it's ever going to end. As Noel cuddles up to him like a cat, his palm leaving wet prints on the lino, he thinks back to Noel underneath him the afternoon before. Stuck on writing, pants around his ankles on the sofa, the dull glow of the laptop screen illuminating the planes of his face as Julian thrusted into him at his own unhurried pace and came. He shuts his eyes and wills his release forward, can feel it tingling along his spine, dancing devilish fingers along his balls and thighs and the inside of his cock. 

Doesn't happen, though. 

Noel's nose presses into his stomach instead, as he searches around for the syrup where he's left it. The cap ricochets across the floor and Noel grins madly into his skin as he grabs for the bottle. 

Julian's eyes shut involuntarily when Noel wraps a hand around him and pours in one swift movement. He jerks his hips up at the cool drizzle of syrup against his dick. Frankly, he's surprised it doesn't sizzle and evaporate on contact. His skin feels roughly the temperature of the sun, popped into a burning lake of fire and finished off in the oven on gas mark fucking eleven out of ten.

No, that would be asking too much. The other half of the bottle, the remaining half that didn't end up on Noel's plate this morning during his first generous pour, ends up dripping down Julian's sticky, coated cock, running straight into his trousers below.

"Oops," Noel says. "Shouldn't've moved, Ju'n. No saving those now. Have to bin 'em."

"You-" Julian begins. It dissolves into a hissed groan as Noel latches on to his dripping, syrupy cock like some type of demented bear driven wild by the sight of honeycomb. 

Noel _moans_ , the sound almost operatic in quality, theatrical, certainly, because no one on earth has ever sounded like that because of sucking cock. Doesn’t matter, though. The sound still rockets directly to Julian’s balls, the vibration, the wet heat of Noel’s mouth, his eager slurping and sucking and swallowing, absolute heaven, absolute perfection, absolutely everything.

Julian hardly notices the syrup that slides down his thighs, the drips that extend down to his knees, or the sugary mess that sticks his trousers to his ankles. It’s just Noel; his mouth on his cock, his hand cupping his balls and sliding off him, his tongue licking up syrup from head to shaft, and down, down, down, until Julian hits the back of his throat.

“Oh, fucking Christ, _Fielding_ ,” Julian gasps. His hand falls to cup the back of Noel’s head, even as he slams his own head against the wall, tries to bash the desire to thrust into Noel’s face out of his brain.

He’s so _hard_ , packed like ten tons of dynamite into a miniature tin of beans. Noel sucks all the way back off him, his cheeks hollowing, his mouth yanking Julian forward. He doesn’t need to say it; Julian hears it anyway. 

_Come with me, come for me, let me take you_ there. 

Noel grips Julian’s hips, holding him, pulling him. Julian’s hand slips from the back of Noel’s head to the side of his face, his thumb nestles at the corner of Noel’s mouth, and it’s sticky with syrup, and Noel moans around him, and he’s got no choice but to _go_.

“Noel,” he groans as the world goes liquid and then ignites, screams, and dies in a blinding maple-scented flash. Somewhere in Canada, lines of tubing connected to trees flow with sap waiting to be distilled, never dreaming that, one day, the fruit of their plastic loins could be used for the sort of hedonistic fire-bombing Julian has just been through, but possibly wishing for it all the same.

He can’t do anything but breathe. His eyes are closed. He turns his head and rests his cheek against the cool plaster and tries to remember important facts, like the day of the week, the color of the sky, and his name.

Noel nips his kneecap and Julian jumps, too oversensitive to be touched. When he looks down at him, he’s licking his lips. He’s got syrup all over his face, smudged around his shit-eating grin. “All right?” he asks.

"Yep," Julian responds, his heart slowing down to a rhythm that's vaguely human and not steam train. "Great."

Noel flops back to sit on his arse. His eyes go wide at the cool lino on his bare bottom as Julian pants and watches him scrub at his sticky face with the back of his hand. 

There are bits of tacky syrup sticking in the tips of his hair and some of it's swiped across the flat of Noel's nose, but he doesn't seem all that concerned. Julian's in a much worse state. Basically everything cock and below was either covered with or touched by Canada's finest sugar syrup via south London's finest sugar-obsessed wasp, and now Julian's tacky with sweat and sweet. 

He's pretty sure that somehow, some way, he's got syrup on the back of his left elbow and just underneath his eye socket. He shifts and his trousers stick to his ankles as if they've been glued. 

Noel smirks.

He leans forward and slips a hand around Julian's calf, sliding down to free his leg from the sticky fabric. He does the same for Julian's other leg, and Julian braces himself on the counter as he steps out of his ruined trousers. Noel starts to pick them up and stand, eyeing the bin a few feet away.

"Give them here," Julian grumbles out. He ignores the tacky mess of his bottom half and plugs the sink. Noel sighs and tosses his trousers and pants in. Hot water and a couple squirts of Fairy Liquid later and they're swimming in a sudsy bath. 

"Never thought I'd say this," Noel drawls, lounging stark naked and sticky against the counter, "but I am _well_ jealous of your trousers."

Julian snorts and shuts off the tap. He grabs Noel by his sticky hand.

"Come on, upstairs."

It's nearly as much of a relief as his orgasm was, stepping under hot water and feeling crystallized syrup starting to melt and loosen off of his most sensitive bits. He shakes his head like a dog and lets Noel duck under the spray with the shampoo, suds sliding down his back, running along the muscle in his bicep.

Julian hasn't even finished soaping the syrup off of his stomach when his dick hints at perking up. He presses his arse against the cold tiles as Noel wrings suds out of his locks and wills himself not to. He thinks of his cracked cabinet and his trousers and pants floating in the sink downstairs, plus all of the dishes he has to wash, plus the parts of the kitchen he has to wipe down after syrup sex, and the script they were working on that they've yet to write, and - oh, yes, of course - the syrup that's dried in his pubes, and thank Christ, he makes it out of the shower and into bed alive and not half-hard. 

Fuck all of the cleanup. Julian's exhausted, and it's Sunday. He needs a nap first.

Noel's all warm and damp and sleepy when he cuddles into Julian's side. He rubs his face against Julian's chest before settling. 

"That was nice, Ju'n. You were good," he sighs. "Liked that thing you did with your tongue." 

Julian hums back and squeezes Noel's arm. "Let's sleep for a bit."

"Alright," Noel yawns agreeably. "I'm knackered."

There is a moment when Julian's hovering just on the edge of sleep, Noel's even, steady breathing ushering him there as if he's being carried aloft on a gentle cloud. 

Then, Noel shifts. "Julian?" he whispers.

Julian scrapes a hand over his face. His "hmm?" comes out mostly as a grunt.

"I am a little peckish, though."

Julian sighs. He thinks. He inventories everything in the flat and lands on the closest edible substance.

"There's those sweets you left last time, back of the drawer." 

Noel pretends to consider and shakes his head. "Probably not. Not after a pint of syrup."

Julian shrugs. Yeah, makes sense. "Bananas in the fruit bowl downstairs."

"No," he says. "Don't want those." 

Toast is out, yoghurt too. Satsumas, crackers, cheese, Monster Munch, tinned soup, leftover takeaway from the Indian restaurant they both like, all unsatisfactory.

Julian's fast understanding that what Noel does want is for Julian to get up, go downstairs to the kitchen like an obedient, albeit mustachioed, maidservant, and make him something to eat while he dozes on his stomach in the warm spot Julian's left behind in his bed. 

Fine.

"What do you want, then?" 

Noel flops onto his stomach and rests on his elbows. He grins at Julian with a wide sunshine smile.

"Pancakes, and I want you to flip them. And I want to watch this time."

“You’re joking,” Julian says, unable to believe that Noel could possibly be trying to do this to him.

“What d’you mean?” he asks. 

“That’s actually, _seriously_ what you want?”

Noel looks down at the bed, walks his hand to Julian’s chest and starts drawing shapes on his skin. “What’s wrong with pancakes?”

“We had pancakes earlier.”

“Sort of,” Noel says. He pets Julian’s shoulder the same way you might pet a grumpy cat. Soothing little rubs.

Julian frowns. “Sort of?” he asks. 

Noel shrugs at him, but says nothing. His fingers pluck across Julian’s collarbone, then down the center of his chest. He rests his hand on Julian’s belly. 

“The kitchen is a mess,” Julian reminds him. 

Noel wiggles closer, gives Julian a kiss on the cheek. His hand creeps further down, past Julian’s belly button. “Can get cleaned up, can’t it?” 

“The dishes…”

“Not _that_ many of those.”

Julian hopes that Noel can see the daggers in his eyes as he stares at him. If he can, he’s ignoring them. He takes Julian’s hand and loops it around his back, places it on the swell of his arse.

Julian chews his lip. “This is honestly going to be your play?”

“What?” Noel asks, creeping his fingers down toward Julian’s cock.

“This,” Julian says, nodding down to where Noel’s hand has closed around his horrible, traitorous prick, which, fine, is not completely hard, but certainly bloody will be if Noel keeps stroking it the way he is. Noel smiles at him and Julian rolls his eyes. “Some of us aren’t just caught in a hellish _Groundhog's Day_ style loop of wanting to see pancakes flipped and having our cocks sucked, some of us just want to have a nap and—”

“I want to see you flip a pancake! It’s not that big a deal! Just go down there and do it, alright?”

“You want to see a pancake get flipped? That’s what you want?”

“Yes!”

“Fine!” Julian says. He tosses the covers back and gets up. He doesn’t bother dressing again; there’s no point.

He goes back down the stairs and into the kitchen. He pulls out the flour, sugar, bicarb of soda, baking powder and salt. His best mixing bowl is already in the sink, along with his whisk and the frying pan. It doesn’t matter. He pulls out a slightly smaller, shallower mixing bowl, a fork, and a different pan, the one that occasionally scorches things. Then he hunts through the fridge for the butter, milk, and eggs.

He has to clabber the milk since he’s out of buttermilk, which he can do by mixing it with some lemon juice. Fortunately, he’s got a lemon on hand. He plucks it out of the fruit bowl.

It’s when Julian is slicing the lemon that Noel pads down the stairs, wearing one of his dressing gowns. It swims on him as he swooshes into the kitchen, like some sort of Dickensian orphan, all delicate bones and loose fabric, only he’s far too pleased with himself. He’s not a deprived, neglected street urchin, he’s a spoiled French aristocrat and Julian is his performing monkey, dancing to keep him from throwing a tantrum. 

He perches on the countertop to watch and Julian crushes the lemon in his hand, venting his frustration on the innocent citrus. Juice trickles into the cup and through the milk. Julian gives the mixture a quick stir then tosses the crushed lemon in the bin.

The measuring spoons and cups that he needs to make the pancakes properly are in the sink, soaking under his trousers… the kitchen is an absolute wreck. He hates cooking in a messy kitchen. It’s like wearing pants that are two days gone, but he’s not about to scrub top to bottom just to make pancakes that he has absolutely no interest in eating, and he’s not about to fish out anything for measuring, so he just eyeballs the various white powders that he tosses into the wobbly mixing bowl, ignoring the itch this intentionally committed inaccuracy causes, and hopes something edible comes out at the end. 

He melts a stick of butter in the microwave, then pours the clabbered milk into it, then the eggs, and then stirs it into a slurry. He punches down into the flour mixture with his fist to make a well then pours the yellow liquid into it. He pulls a fork out of a drawer then slams the drawer shut with his hip. He stirs everything together and it ends up looking more or less like batter.

Great.

He leaves the batter resting while he heats up the pan, then pulls out a plate from the cabinet and puts it down on the counter. He does not look at Noel and couldn’t care less what he’s thinking.

For once, Noel isn’t just telling him. Normally, he chatters like a parakeet when Julian is doing anything that doesn’t directly involve him, about whatever happens to cross his mind. 

Once he notices the silence, Julian can’t help having a little peek at him.

Noel is watching with his bottom lip tucked into his teeth, his eyes half shut, but still sparkling somehow as they comb over Julian’s completely naked body.

“Happy?” Julian asks him, gesturing at the mess all around them.

“Not yet,” Noel says.

Julian narrows his eyes.

Finally, the pan is hot enough. Julian slicks it with more butter, then he pours the batter. It sizzles on contact. Noel hops off the countertop, positions himself at Julian’s elbow. He stares at the pancake, shifting from side to side, prancing with restless anticipation. Julian can feel the air stirred by his dressing gown blowing like a breeze across his skin. 

The bubbles on top of the pancake get bigger, pop more slowly. The edges start to go dry.

“Ju,” Noel whispers, tense with excitement.

Julian grips the handle of the pan. Noel’s eyes go wide. He actually sucks in a breath, holds it—

Julian tips the pan down, the pancake slides, he draws his elbow back, dips his arm, flicks his wrist; Noel’s eyebrows draw together, he clenches his teeth; the pancake levitates, floats up in the air, spins once and then… flop. It lands dead in the center of the pan.

“That was genius!” Noel says, immediately throwing his arms around Julian’s waist and kissing him. “Oh, wow, did you see how it went round?” He turns his hand quickly in the air, “Like that? It was amazing!”

Julian lets the little half-smile that Noel's kissed onto his lips spread into a grin at his enthusiasm. 

"Can we do this every Sunday? Make it a tradition?" Noel's eyes go wide and serious all of a sudden and he leans in, Julian's dressing gown slipping off his shoulder. 

"Julian," he says, voice low as if he's telling a secret he doesn't want another soul to hear. Julian half-expects him to look over both his shoulders like he's sweeping for a tail in some 70s spy flick before he divulges the secret codes. 

"Julian, could you do that again?" he asks.

Julian nods. "Yeah, of course." He slides the pancake onto the waiting plate, finds a clean fork, and offers the plate to Noel. "Go on and finish that and I'll do you another one when you're ready so it'll be warm."

Noel frowns slightly. "Oh. Actually, could you do it now?"

Julian turns back to the pan. He's got plenty of batter and he could probably get the second pancake even more golden brown than the first. He chuckles and puts a pat of butter in to melt. He won't lie. Even with his initial annoyance at having to get out of bed and come back downstairs to cook again, after hearing that, he's feeling _quite_ pleased with himself. 

His brow comes up as he ladles batter in the center of the pan into a perfectly round pancake. "A bit more than peckish after…"

He gestures at the countertop, and over his shoulder at the wall, and at his pants floating limply in lukewarm water.

"... all that, then?" 

"Hmm?" Noel says from behind his elbow. "Oh, yeah, right. That. How long until you flip it, exactly?" 

Noel's plate is untouched on the counter, and Julian has a sneaking suspicion that he's not hungry in the least. A suspicion that gets warmer as the pancake on the counter gets cooler, as the steam wafting up into the air gradually dissipates. Julian purses his lips.

Noel has seen where Julian’s eyes have just come back from. He glances over at the pancake, then back at Julian. Julian looks back at the pancake, raises his eyebrows, then glares at Noel. Noel peeks down at the floor before he meets Julian’s eye again. When he does, he’s got the sort of rictus smile on that people use when they’ve just accidentally mown down someone else’s prize rosebush.

“You _tit_ ,” Julian spits. “You’re not hungry _at all_ are you?”

Noel’s lips scrunch and go sideways as he tries to come up with a way to bail himself out of Julian’s irritation. “I did say I eat with my eyes? Looks delicious. And that flip was...” he nods, with a little smile on his face, “top marks for that, yeah?”

Julian is speechless, unable to believe or comprehend, or understand how Noel is just so _Noel_.

“Is another one out of the question, then?” Noel asks.

“You’re never having another pancake in your life, not one made by my hand. I swear to Christ, you are very lucky that I don’t fancy trying to get bloodstains out of this lino, because I would absolutely murder you right now if it wasn’t light fucking beige.”

Noel swallows, and looks at the lino, which is dotted with sticky syrup spots that are already turning darkish grey from dirt or hair or whatever the hell is getting pulled into it from the bloody cosmos. “It does show dirt quite easily, doesn’t it?”

Julian turns the burner on the stove off. “Unbelievable.” He steps past Noel, heads for the stairs, but Noel catches his wrist.

“Ju! I’m sorry, alright? I’ll wash up all the dishes, and clean your counters, and get the syrup up and all. Ju! Come on, please?”

Julian stops in his tracks. He spins around. “Please _what_?”

“Don’t go upstairs?” Noel attempts.

Julian’s hand drops onto his hip. “Why?”

Noel’s eyes roam across the island, from the pan to the bowl of batter and then back. He smiles. “You can freeze ‘em,” he says. “Save them for later? Just one more flip? Then, anything you want. Promise!”

Julian shakes his head. "Nope. Going upstairs, getting into bed, having a nap, forgetting that this happened. Mop's in the closet next to the cabinet you cracked. Bye, now."

Noel fidgets worse than Julian's ever seen him fidget before. He looks like a slinky flung down the stairs in an M.C. Escher drawing, like he doesn't know whether to go for Julian, or the stove, or his plate, or the front door. Julian's dressing gown slips further off of his shoulder as he darts his hand out for Julian's wrist again. He tugs when his fingers close around Julian's skin. 

"No, Ju, wait! Look."

Julian plants himself firmly where he is, and Noel wilts a little, but steps back over to the stove. He fumbles the sleeves up his arms, tucking the fabric between his elbows and his ribs, and twists the burner back on, grabbing for the handle of the pan. He lifts it up and the sleeves fall back down his arms.

Julian's dressing gown hits the lino in a puddle around Noel's ankles about the same time that he picks up the pan, tilts it, flicks his wrist, and flips the waiting pancake over to its blackened side.

Noel drops the pan and turns back to Julian. "See?" he says, arms outstretched, as if his ability to flip a pancake all along is explanation and apology enough for the entire morning.

Julian opens his mouth. He shuts it. He opens it again. He doesn't know what to say or what to do with his hands. They settle in the air midway to his waist.

"How is this supposed to make it better, exactly? You could have been doing it yourself _this entire time_?"

"Yeah, but that's not important," Noel says. He steps closer, hands palm up, offering them to Julian. "It's not about that, it's not about the flip-"

Julian's brows shoot up and Noel raises his hands. "Wait, wait, it is, but it isn't! It's…" 

Noel goes still. He's back to staring at the lino. He looks as sad and slumped-over as a child's abandoned soft toy. 

"I just like it when _you_ do it, Ju'n," he says quietly. 

"I'm sorry," Julian says. He's not sure what he's just heard, or of anything about this day, really. "What was that?"

Noel looks up from under his fringe, his shoulders curved in towards his chest. "I like when _you_ do it, Ju."

Fucking hell. 

" _Why_?" 

Noel lifts his head, his eyes dancing over Julian's face, down his neck to his arms, resting on his hands where they're still awkwardly hovering waist-high.

"It's so amazing when _you_ do it, Ju. All cool and... you know. Like, athletic. You look really good when you do it, you're so confident and you just get in there with your hands and bam! Flipped! No hesitation! It doesn't know what's hit it!"

Julian doesn’t know what to say.

Noel keeps going. “It’s like how when we play tennis, yeah? And I hit a good shot and you sort of… look on for a bit? It’s like that. It’s sexy.” He looks around the kitchen again. “All this is sexy. You putting together the batter, and mixing it up, and cracking eggs, and flinging things round in a frenzy, with no recipe book in sight... you just… you know what you’re doing. And then you’ve got that flip.” He bites his lip. His hips slide sideways then he pushes his hand through his still-damp fringe. “I mean, I’ve got tennis, and silly boots, and you’ve got… everything else. And you don’t know it. You know?”

Julian clears his throat. “I think you’ve blown the game up, now, actually.”

Noel smiles. “You going to go on long brags? Tell everyone about your perfect flip?”

“If it would make you happy,” Julian says.

“Ju…”

He doesn’t have to ask. Julian crosses the distance between them, holds Noel’s face in his hands, and kisses him. 

Noel melts. The whole line of his body, from chest, to belly, to thigh rests against Julian, and close as he is, Julian wants him closer. He loves him so intensely, so unreasonably and insanely, he forgets it sometimes. If he didn’t, he’d lose his mind. If it always felt it just like this, he’d die. There is no space for anything else, only room for the feeling that presses against his lungs and up through his throat, that burns, and stings, and soars, so perfectly, so high and so impossible.

When they break apart, Noel’s eyes are shining. Julian traces his cheek with his thumb, then kisses him again, right between his eyes, then at the bridge of his nose, then down at his lips. “I love you,” Julian says.

“Love you, too.” Noel smirks. “Bit vain though, to say that, after I big you up, like. Tell you how,” he drops his eyes down to Julian’s chest, “how cool you are. Sometimes, I think you just love me because I love you.”

“That’s absolutely it,” Julian says. “Completely. My megalomania knows no bounds. Hasn’t got anything to do with an appreciation for silly boots.” Noel huffs a laugh. Julian tucks his thumb under Noel’s chin, and Noel looks up at him. “Nothing to do with making me feel alive, or, come to that, making me happy to be alive, via torturing me half to death. It’s really just about hearing you say nice things about me. On occasion.”

Noel squirms. His face pinks. His lips purse in a stupidly happy little grin as he ducks his head back down. "You're making me go all red, Julian," he says, slipping his arms underneath Julian's, his head coming to rest on his chest. 

Julian tucks his arms around Noel, draws him in closer, palms sliding over the warm, soft skin of his back. Forget the dishes and cleaning the lino and his pants floating in the sink. He can put the rest of the batter in the fridge until later, and then he'll flip the entire batch, one by one, if Noel wants. 

Julian's sure he does, sure he will, knows there's nothing that he won't do if Noel asks him. Right now, though, he seems content to have Julian hold him, to bury his face in Julian's neck, breathing in the scent of his clean skin.

Julian's content to do the same. He rests his cheek on top of Noel's head, damp strands of hair tickling at his nose, and breathes in the scent of his shampoo. It smells faintly of kiwis and something else, something less fruity and more-

"Oh, shit!"

Julian leaps to pull the forgotten pan off of the stove. From the smell of burning wafting out, he'd wager that the second side of the pancake is nicely crisped, and about as edible as a lump of charcoal. 

Noel giggles and flips the burner off as Julian escorts the smoking pan to the bin and tilts it over the opening. Nothing happens. He gives the pan a tap against the side of the counter to loosen it with no luck. He's ready to bin the whole thing, pan and all, when Noel taps him on the shoulder and then presses up against his back.

"Might want this," he says, nuzzling his face into Julian's shoulder, leaning his hips forward so Julian can feel him start to harden against the back of his thigh.

Noel loops the spatula under Julian's arm.

Julian follows the path of Noel’s arm to his face. He’s smiling of course. The spatula is kinked over like a snapped twig. Julian takes it from him. Spatula, pan, all of it, he chucks straight into the bin. He wraps Noel up, lifting him for the second time that day.

Noel’s thighs lock around his hips, his arms loop around Julian’s shoulders. 

“You’re replacing those,” Julian tells him between kisses.

“Sure, whatever,” Noel agrees. 

Julian puts him down on the sofa, immediately lays down over him. Noel’s cock is hard against his hip. “Replacing them with better ones.”

“I’ll get you a two-hundred quid beige set to match your lino,” Noel gasps, as Julian grinds against him.

Julian runs his tongue over Noel’s pulse. “Sure will. You’re cleaning the lino, too.”

“Okay.” Noel thrusts up against Julian, his hands run across Julian’s back, from neck to arse; everywhere.

Julian sucks at his collarbone, bites his neck. “First though… first… you’re going flip over so I can eat your arse like it’s made of candied bacon.”

Noel laughs, “Wow, you really know how to make that sound sexy, Ju.”

Julian pushes himself up on his hands, looks down at Noel’s flushed, grinning face. Sexy enough from the look of it. “Go on,” he commands. “Flip.” 

Noel flips.

**Author's Note:**

> Buttermilk Pancakes:  
> 2 cups flour  
> 3 tablespoons sugar  
> 1 ½ teaspoons baking powder  
> 1 ½ teaspoons baking soda  
> 1 teaspoon salt  
> 2 ½ cups buttermilk  
> 2 eggs  
> 3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted, plus additional for pan
> 
> Whisk dry ingredients in large mixing bowl. Make a well in the center and pour the buttermilk and eggs in, along with the melted butter. If you don’t have buttermilk on hand, sour milk with lemon juice. Whisk together until incorporated; do not overbeat. Let batter rest.
> 
> Heat pan over low heat five minutes, then melt a pat of butter. Turn heat to medium and ladle in ⅓ cup of batter. 
> 
> Flip once bubbles form and pop, creating small, open holes on the surface of the pancake. Cook other side until golden brown.
> 
> Serve with buckets of syrup.


End file.
